


Comfort and Addiction.

by xmelx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drugs, Gen, I'm Sorry, I'm so so so sorry, Post Reichenbach, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmelx/pseuds/xmelx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is lost after Sherlock jumps. After an accident, he finds comfort and addiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort and Addiction.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry guys. This has been floating around in my head for a while. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Self-Harm; Drug Abuse; Suicidal Ideology.
> 
> Un-beta'd and un-brit picked.
> 
> Comments appreciated! (In fact comments are loved, so are the people posting the comments!)

The first time it happens, it’s an accident. 

It is eight months after Sherlock died.  
John is sitting at the kitchen table, finding solace in a bottle of whiskey.  
He is lost in his thoughts, when the glass slips from his hands and shatters on the floor below.  
He begins to sob, then minutes later, decides to clean up the shards of glass, which remind him of his heart.  
As he does, one of the pieces slices his hand.

The pain is so raw, so beautiful, John muses.  
It’s the first true thing he’s felt since he watched his best friend jump from the roof of St. Barts. 

The second time it happens, it’s a week later. 

Yet again, John is trying to find peace of mind at the bottom of a bottle.  
After five or six glasses, his thoughts turn to how clean the pain was, when the glass pierced his skin.  
He pours himself another glass, and stares into the kitchen, before standing up and walking into Sherlock’s room.  
He is almost robotic, his mind blank and his body numb, as he finds Sherlock’s razor.  
Once it’s in his hand, he heads back to the kitchen table, back to his whiskey, and places the razor down.  
John rolls up his sleeves, takes a large gulp of the liquid, feeling it travel down his throat, and picks up the blade.  
He presses the sharp steel to his arm and drags it across the pale skin.  
Just once.  
One single line.  
He watches as the wound opens.  
Watches as the blood begins to flow.  
Then he throws the razor to the floor and begins to cry.  
That night, he sleeps in Sherlock’s bed. 

The third time it happens, it’s been a month.  
This time, however, John is sober. 

He wakes in the middle of the night, tears streaming down his face.  
He dreams of Sherlock every night, normally happy dreams, but tonight he dreamed of Sherlock jumping.  
Without a second thought, or as he realises later on, any thought; John goes and gets Sherlock’s razor again.  
Before he has a chance to stop himself, he places the blade to his skin, and drags.  
Then he does it a second time.  
Then a third.  
By the time he finishes, there are seven perfect cuts across the flesh.  
The blood is flowing freely and John relishes the fact that he can feel.  
That night, he doesn't cry himself to sleep.    
The next morning, he feels strangely calm.  
He cleans and dresses the wounds on his arm. He tidies up 221b, and then after having a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson, goes and does the shopping.  
He doesn’t realise until much later, that he’s found a way to cope.  

Three months after the first deliberate cut, John is cutting almost every night.  
His arm is a patchwork of scars, some silvery, some white and some red and angry. He loves each and every one of them.   

Three months after that, he realises he’s not getting relief from self-harm anymore.  
He’s cutting so deep that he has to stitch his wounds shut most nights.  
So he does what any self-serving addict does. He chases a new high.  
When Sherlock spoke of cocaine, he used such reverence.  
So in what remains of John’s logical mind, it’s the perfect place to start. 

He uses the homeless network to point him in the direction of a dealer.  
When he is successful, he heads back to 221b and methodically prepares himself and the drug.  
Once everything is ready, he rolls up his sleeve, and ties Sherlock’s belt around his bicep.  
The moment the needle is in his vein, a single tear rolls down his cheek.  
He pushes the plunger and feels the cocaine enter his system.  
He removes the makeshift tourniquet, before sliding the needle out.  
The high is like nothing he has ever felt, yet it isn’t enjoyable.  
He feels like he is in somebody else’s skin.  
He is jittery and edgy and hates every second of it.  
Once the horror come-down is over; he flushes the rest of the coke down the toilet and cries himself to sleep.  
Next he tries heroin.  
He enjoys that more than cocaine, although after using it half a dozen times, he gives that up too.  
It’s a beautiful drug, but he’s already numb.   

After chasing new highs, day after day; month after month; John realises that it always comes back to this.  
Whiskey and Sherlock’s razor.  
Blood and Sherlock's bed.  
He moves on from his arm, and starts cutting his thighs.  
Soon, these too, are covered in scars.  
These scars are thicker, the brutality evident.  
These are the scars of a man in pain, of a man who wants to die, but doesn’t know it.  
And every night he curls up in Sherlock’s bed and dreams of his best friend.   

One morning John wakes and realises that he wants to die. The realisation hits him like a brick wall, like a bullet, like a crashing wave. So does the feeling of peace.   

He begins to put everything in place. He sorts all of his possessions into boxes and throws away things that aren’t needed.  
He doesn’t touch Sherlock’s things.  
He phones his friends and organises to see them, for the first time in months.  
He still doesn’t touch Sherlock’s things.  
He goes to the pub with Lestrade.  
He has dinner with Harry.  
He has coffee with Mike.  
He takes Sarah to the cinema.  
And finally he sees Molly.   

He goes home that night and stops in for tea with Mrs Hudson.  
He makes his way upstairs and into Sherlock’s room.  
He puts a glass of water on the bedside table, along with a bottle of pills, his phone and Sherlock’s razor.  
He strips down to his boxers and puts on Sherlock’s favourite dressing gown, before laying on the bed.  
He picks up his phone and sends a text to Mycroft, inviting him around tomorrow morning.  
He actually laughs at the fact that Mycroft will be the one to find him. 

He reaches over and takes the bottle of pills from the table.  
He unscrews the cap and shakes them out.  
Fifty tiny, yellowish pills; each one containing 5 milligrams of Diazepam.  
He takes them 5 at a time.  
Ten mouthfuls of water.  
Then, as he has done so many nights before, he cuts his flesh open.  
This time, however, it is different.  
This time he traces the veins in his wrists, slicing all the way through to the bone.  
The Valium has made him numb, and he can’t feel the sting of the razor.  
He doesn’t feel the blood pouring from both arms. 

And he thinks to himself, as he drifts in to unconsciousness, it’s like falling.        

**Author's Note:**

> Yet again, I'm so so sorry for this.
> 
> Please don't hate me too much!


End file.
